


Shy Violet

by Morgan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:17:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Appearances can be deceptive, everyone knows that. Sam thinks that applies about twice as much to Dean, but then he’s always been better at seeing past the act when it comes to his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shy Violet

They’re in some college town interviewing the witnesses of a hapless suicide, something that looks like a ghost girl throwing herself off a bridge or an imprint or a death echo. It’s all bogus.

There’s this incredibly obvious typical college kid who started cozying up to Dean the moment they walked in the dorms, all long lashes and handsy and flirting outrageously and Dean had gone all shy-violet around him. It was one of those times when Dean had emphasized the this-is-my-little-brother thing, something to do with their cover, and the kid had started hitting on Dean the second he figured out that him and Sam weren’t _together_ -together. It was cute, in a nauseating kind of way.

Dean is so far past the point where he could even get embarrassed anymore with all the shit he’s seen and done, but he’s really got the “oh, my, gosh, I think that boy is flirting with me” thing down to an art. So, Sam watched the show, and every time the kid turned his back Dean would give Sam this look, like “are you seeing this?” all arched eyebrow and wryly amused smirk.

It’s stupid, thinking Dean is in any way innocent.

Dean’s been known to play the blushing virgin straight boy act to the fucking hilt, which … well, let’s just say Sam has a pretty hard time keeping his laughter in check.

Dean’s different with girls. It’s not that he’s not fully capable of leering and using lame pickup lines and just in general hamming it up until Sam pretty much hopes the girl will slap him hard enough that he’ll really feel it.

Sam’s seen him in action. Sam’s _seen_ him in every kind of sense of the word and the Dean that gets with a girl is not the Dean Sam knows. That Dean is careful. Well, of course he is, but he’s actually careful in a patient, generous, tender way that makes Sam feel off balance. He caught Dean back in the day, when they were both in their teens and he’d watched. He couldn’t help himself, spellbound the moment Dean put his hands up the girls skirt, so gentle about it. Dean seemed hyperaware of his own strength and size and the way the girl was so slight in comparison, pressed up against him.

Sam’s spent a little too long thinking about that but it was pretty much his go-to for a while there, live action, better than porn and Dean, Jesus Christ, kissing with a kind of deliberate soft persuasiveness, making the girl take the lead. Sam couldn’t figure that out. Took him a while to get it. Dean was making her show him what she was at ease with, making her straddle his lap and rock down on him at her own pace, because he was making sure she was comfortable with what she was doing.

The cocky swagger and the hard talk and attitude, Dean’s James Dean act, complete with that odd mix of aloofness and intensity that pretty much fascinates everyone, Dean’s intractability, his obedience, his ability to fall in line, it all makes him seem not so much a rebel as a loyal. There’s something vulnerable about that.

Dean’s got stuff going on, that casually physical kind of attention which Sam is used to, grew up with. It’s got an edge to it, because when do things with Dean ever not have an edge? But Sam likes it. He likes the rough hand at his shoulder, the palm over his heart, the slap to his back. He likes the fact that Dean sits down so close their knees knock together when he sprawls out. He likes the fact that he can do all those things too and Dean never steps back, never moves away, treats Sam-in-his-space with a kind of absentminded plain acceptance that still, even to this day, makes something rise up in answer in Sam.

Put all that together and, frankly? It reeks of potential submissiveness.

Which is … wrong.

In a world where everything makes sense and the psyche really is that simple, just a quick game of tick-tack-toe, Dean would be eager to please, easy to steer, effortless to read. The thing about Dean that pretty much anyone but Sam always overlooks is that all these things are true to some extent, but that’s not all there is to Sam’s brother. Each thing taken as a thing unto itself makes sense, yeah, and separate like islands, they are all the kinds of things that would be straightforward truths, if his brother was that uncomplicated.

The thing about Dean that everyone misses, the girls, the guys, the hunters, the authorities, hell, even dad, is that Dean’s strongest ruling characteristic is that he is versatile. Not only that, but he’s really fucking smart about it.

Dean’s shy when he needs to be, deferential when he needs to be, comforting and gentle when he needs to be. He touches girls like they’re made of spun glass and kisses them like they’re made of spun sugar and he’s good with kids and pets and pretty much anyone that he needs to get on the right side of.

The Dean that is Sam’s Dean, though… he’s other things.

Intractable. Demanding. Relentless. And he fucks like a beast.

The sweet-and-polite version of Dean that was honest to goodness surprised by getting a kiss on the cheek from some single mom who’s kid they saved from a bitter death by drowning, steps into Sam’s space with nothing hidden and no pretence and puts a hand on the back of Sam’s neck, bringing him down to kiss him like he’s got every right to take whatever the hell he wants from Sam.

Sam might have been looking, might have been thinking things, but it was Dean – that first time when they were kids – it was all Dean. Adrenaline skittering in their veins and dad in the next room, Dean had leaned down over Sam and without as much as a twitch, put his hand square on Sam’s semi over his jeans, mouth just by the line of his jaw and said “show me what you’ve got, Sammy, show your big brother”. Blatant and unapologetic. And Sam, barely fourteen, had done just that with his heart in his mouth and his face burning from shame and arousal.

Sam’s always known he was completely lost from that moment on.

He tried to run from it, rid himself of it, hide, bury himself in the safety of what looked like a pretty normal life to him back then, but Dean… Dean’s always going to override all that.

It’s why Sam never found the words when Jessica asked him about his family, catching him completely unprepared. It’s why he suddenly stood there, absolutely frozen and thrown back in time to some rented room with gouges in the wallpaper and a sheet hung for a curtain - Dean’s hands on him. He must have looked like he had been kicked square in the gut, because she never did that again.

Sam’s not that kid anymore, the kid that went to college and hunched his spine and tried to seem real nice and innocuous, inconspicuous and other things of the like. He was never really very successful at being bland and mild and invisible. He tried for a while, but that time is long in the past and the truth of the matter is it wasn’t going to stick anyway. Not the way he was brought up.

Dean will get him on his hands and knees and lick him loose with broad sure sweeps of his tongue, put his fingers in, have Sam begging to be fucked in less than no time at all. Dean isn’t shy about that. He isn’t shy about the fact that one of the reasons he likes having Sam ass up on a bed is because Sam is his little brother. There have been times when that’s been so messed up that Sam doesn’t even know how to deal with it, going to school with bite marks on his ass, Jesus Christ. CPS would have been right to separate them, because there’s no way that’s ever been anything like healthy.

He was never really seduced by Dean. It’s not the right word for what Dean does to him.

Dean is… Sam’s best secret, his preferred diversion, his favorite puzzle. He can spend hours watching his brother, endlessly engaging and so fucking sharp, so very good at what he does that no one ever sees him coming. Sam can spend pretty much all his free time thinking about what Dean shows and what he hides and which role he plays, and he can hate it and find it so entertaining at the same time that he gets vertigo from just that. And that’s before Dean puts him on his knees and says “suck” in that rough-soft voice that’s honey, gravel and fire.

Dean isn’t careful with Sam. He isn’t nice, or polite, or gentle.

First time Dean ever fucked him he was rougher than he meant to be. Post-hunt shakes and jagged cuts on both of them, both of them bloody that time, and Sam had been maybe fifteen? Definitely not legal, but just as definitely eager. Dean pushing into him hurt and then it didn’t. Then he’d just been able to hear the pounding of his own pulse and Dean’s hips slapping into his, whip crack sharp and stinging so good Sam didn’t know where to put his thoughts. There had been a deep throbbing ache in his ass when he woke up the morning after, lightheaded from what the hell they had been doing, and still he was hurting more from the hunt than from that.

Sam can take it.   
He’s always been able to take it.

There’s something so fierce at the core of Dean that he’s never going to make sense to anyone who hasn’t been born to the life like they have. Dean will play nice, but that’s all it ever is, playacting.

Dean’s never said he’s sorry. He’s never said they shouldn’t be doing this. Sam doesn’t always understand that, because he’s thought himself into a dizzying downward spiral over how messed up all this is a couple of times, especially when he was away from Dean. He still needs it the way fish need water.

It’s a self-evident thing, him and Dean.

Not that it excuses anything, or really explains it, but Sam’s always thought of that first time when Dean just put his hand on Sam’s cock as something like an avalanche, a pyroclastic flow, a tidal wave. Something of the natural order and the kind of force that couldn’t be shored up, walled in or actually stopped. Sam’s thought that if the powers that be didn’t want this for them, then they shouldn’t have put someone he loves so profoundly, so completely, so close to him in the first place.

Which might be convenient rationalization.

There’s the way Dean put it back in the day… “there won’t be any two-headed babies.” Usually followed by “come on, Sammy”. Which Sam did. Does. Every time. And, yeah, Dean does call him “Sammy” while fucking him.

One time Dean and dad were away for a while on a hunt. Dean came back alone so strung out Sam didn’t really have time to react when Dean put him up against the wall and gave Sam a look that said “I’m going to fuck you until your knees have carpet burn and all you can say is my name”. Sam’s never gone down faster, sliding bonelessly, helplessly to the floor and taking Dean’s hips in his hands, the same kind of fever flaring hot in him, sudden and devastating, his mouth already at work over Dean’s button fly. Thought for a second it must have been a curse, a siren, an incubus, something. But no, that was just Dean. Dean does that to him. Makes him stupid and eager and hungry.

This thing between them has always been completely strange and hot and undeniable. Sam always means it when he tells Dean he’s sick of being a freak. He always meant it, every school he ever went to, every time he had to introduce himself to a new class, every time he fucked up because there are some very normal things that he just has no idea how to do, how to cope with. It’s tangled with this, with how twisted up he is with his brother. It’s just not the part of being a freak that makes him feel bad anymore. Truth of the matter is whoever else Sam has been with, he’s always been Dean’s. Dean got to him too early, seeped into him with sunshine and laughter and fierce protective violent certainty.

That’s one of the reasons he feels lit up and alive around Dean.

Like now. Like right now, when Dean’s been flirting coyly with waitresses and blatantly with co-eds and subtly with the college boys he took money off at the bar. Dean walks him back to the bed and puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, not even a hint of pressure needed for Sam to sit down and start on Dean’s belt while Dean gracefully kicks off his boots and drops his jacket. A flutter and his shirt follows. His t-shirt is blue and worn, threadbare at the seams. Sam’s got the buckle undone and Dean’s jeans open and he’s suddenly caught staring as Dean strips off the t-shirt too, his arms drawn up and every muscle of his torso in a long, spare stretch.

It’s always been this way, Dean’s always hit him like this, like a complete surprise every time and still so known, so familiar, right down to the dangerous glint in his eyes.

-My little brother, Dean says, like he’s reading Sam’s mind.

It’s always been that way, too. Dean’s inside his thoughts, so far inside the perimeter walls that Sam keeps high and well defended with pretty much all of the rest of the world. Dean’s the one who knows to fist his hand in Sam’s hair and steer him where he wants him to go. Sam’s mouth drops open at the grip, lips already parted when they hit Dean’s stomach, and it’s a damp glide across skin and muscle. That’s a taste of want, right there.

Sam likes the way Dean’s free hand roams across his shoulders, a little way down his back and then settles so his thumb is resting at the base of Sam’s neck. That fucking scar that cost them so much is under Dean’s fingertips and Sam knows that means something, more sorrow there than he cares to think about, so he uses his tongue and teeth to distract them both instead. It works pretty well.

There is no going into any of this blind, there never really was. Dean is no less startlingly beautiful now than he was at twenty and Sam’s always been unable to look away from that. Scars and bruises and all the rest of it, it all adds something, those fever hot fierce things that live underneath the kind of rough front that Dean puts up, the bad-boy with a heart of gold, and Sam knows that that’s not what Dean is. Dean is far less likely to compromise than that persona.

Dean’s steering him, that grip on his hair, and there are hours worth of having done this before, the two of them together and Dean’s eyes laughing at him. Sam wants it. He wants it so bad his mouth is watering. The act itself, he’s good at that, good at making his mouth wet and wide for his brother, good at sucking so hard Dean hisses at him, because Dean likes things a little rougher than you’d think if you’d seen him kissing some girl. Dean likes Sam’s hands resting on his thighs, nails digging in, sharing strength between them and hurting each other just a little, a stinging kind of ache riding in on the pleasure. So he goes where Dean’s hands guide him and he takes Dean’s cock into his mouth and lets the saliva build up for a slick slide.

Sam glances up, needs to see what kind of look he’s putting on Dean’s face, what kind of glimmer there is to his eyes. Remembers Dean taking his fingers into his own mouth and teaching Sam how he wants it.

Sam backs off a little when Dean’s hand moves to the juncture of his neck, thumb resting at the base of his throat. He holds on to Dean’s cock with one hand, folds his tongue and lets the underside windshield wiper slick skin. Then he flattens his tongue and licks Dean from base to tip. He likes this part, layering the anticipating, letting the pace build only to bring it back down to next to nothing. Sam sucks hard and fast and then goes slow, pulls off completely, puckers his lips and blows a long breath of cool air just to watch Dean shiver.

-You’re too good at that, Dean tells him with something deadly serious lurking around at the bottom of his tone.

Sam moves back enough to be able to look him straight in the eyes.

-You taught me everything I know.

That gets a growl. Honestly, Sam was kind of banking on it. He gets directed until he’s on his back, flat against the mattress and Dean puts Sam’s booted foot right in the middle of his own chest just to undo the laces and it’s … fucking dirty, the way Dean watches him, the way the scuffed leather contrasts his winter pale skin. Dean knows what he’s doing, fussing a little over the knots and giving Sam the kind of look that says he could just as easily be put on his hands and knees with his jeans pulled just past the curve of his ass so Dean can get at him and it shouldn’t be disappointing that Dean’s taking the time to get him naked before he fucks him.

-What did I teach you? Dean asks and there’s a wicked gleam of amusement in his gaze and something like fondness slipping around his inflection.   
-How to suck you, Sam tells him and watches as Dean pulls off one boot, helps exchange his foot, thinks about the dark smudges of dust and tar on his brother’s chest that he’s just put there.   
-What else? Dean asks and tugs off the second boot, strips off the sock, puts Sam’s naked foot back on his chest and leans into it, making Sam tense his muscles to give back even opposite pressure.   
-How to shoot, Sam says without thinking. “How to fight. How to stay alive. How to cheat at cards. How to ride a bike.”   
Dean raises an eyebrow at him and tugs at the hem of his jeans until Sam takes the hint and undoes his belt and fly, raises his hips enough that they slide down when Dean pulls.   
-What else?   
-How to keep focus, how to kiss, how to… _Dean_ , Sam breaks off when Dean runs his hand down the inside of his thigh.   
-And you were doing so well there too, Dean tells him with a grin.

Dean is like most things you get addicted to, unpredictable and dangerous. There’s heady pleasure and a pretty healthy dose of fear wrapped up in being like this with Dean. He plays hard and he doesn’t take any prisoners. Sam angles his leg out, showing off for Dean without much afterthought. The part of Sam that’s always guarded, always watchful, doesn’t shut down with Dean. It’s not that kind of thing they have going. But there is trust. It doesn’t make easy sense, not when Sam is willingly laying himself out, defenseless in a way he never allows himself to be with anyone else.

Sam is different with girls too. He’s not nearly as stupid about that as he was when he was a gangly teenager. He knows he’s big enough, dark enough, to have them gasping when he pushes. He likes that, the immediate control he gains from being bigger and stronger. He gets a rush from their rushed breaths and the tremor of anxiousness that always rides in on a coil of arousal when he puts some girl up against the wall and tears at her clothes. He’s still careful, makes sure he isn’t overstepping.

It’s not like that with Dean. Sam can pull that kind of thing on Dean too, these days, push at him, strain against him, rip at his shirt, kiss him like there’s something to atone for. Differences lie in what he gets for that kind of behavior. Dean will grin and meet him with just enough countermeasures that Sam is always made aware that he’s being allowed to do those things, he’s being given permission, but it’s still never without an edge, because it will most likely come around, karma being a beautiful bitch that way.

-I watched that kid hit on you, Sam says suddenly and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s thinking right now.   
-Which kid? Dean asks, but he knows. It’s there in the tilt of his eyebrow, the curve of his lip.   
-The one that wouldn’t stop touching you, Sam says.   
-Green’s not your color, Dean tells him, gaze dropping, eyelids half lowered to hide whatever that was.   
-Not jealous, Dean, just thinking. He had no idea, Sam says and he hears it in his own voice, the sheer drop of want there, like jumping off a cliff.   
-About what? Dean asks, running his hands all the way up Sam’s legs, a slight hint of nails as he scrapes back down and somehow that opens Sam’s legs like a butterfly knife, spreads him so wide.   
-The kind of trouble he would have gotten himself into.   
-Trouble, Sammy? Dean says and he’s running his hands all over, slowly leaning in closer until he’s on the bed.

Sam makes the decision for them, doesn’t really care what it looks like. He brings his knees up, keeps his legs spread, puts his hands at the back of his own thighs, holds himself open to be fucked and he watches Dean’s face the whole time.

-You’re trouble, Sam tells his brother.

Dean’s smile is a feral thing, and that’s about right. Sam’s so fucking turned on he doesn’t really need much at this point, just to get Dean inside him. Dean crawls up and in close, rolls his hips so Sam can feel him against the crease of his ass, wet and sticky and ready.

-Just like that? Dean asks, and it’s a valid question.

There could be more of a lead-in, but Sam’s beyond that now. He nods at Dean instead and watches as Dean slicks himself and lines up. Sam can take it, even if there’s a burn of too much, too fast at first with Dean grabbing his legs for leverage, bringing them in and up a little, so he can stay half-risen on his knees. Sam grabs for Dean’s shoulder with one hand, fumbles for a headboard that isn’t there and presses his palm flat against the wall instead. It’s going to be a take-no-prisoners ride. He’s going to get so well-fucked he’ll be a tender wreck under Dean when they’re done. Just like when he was maybe fifteen.

Dean’s thrown his head back while he works his way in and Sam’s closed his eyes, but now he watches as Dean slowly brings his head back level, gaze locking on Sam and there it is, that look that means business, the beast Sam knows. Dean waits for him, keeps pressed in close until Sam shifts his hips a little and that’s the starter pistol, that’s the thing that gets Dean moving, slow at first, but strong and deep.

Fraying Dean’s control is easy for Sam. Panting ragged breaths against his neck and sliding his hand down to Dean’s ass to get him to go harder does it. Dean still has the presence of mind to grin at him, to grind his hips in, to give that good deep roll and push, making Sam think about the times when he was slighter than Dean, slimmer, smaller and Dean would just haul him back into place after fucking him so hard he slid up the mattress.

Sam likes getting fucked about as much as he likes it the other way around, it isn’t about generosity. This is Sam telling Dean to “get to it, come the fuck on, Dean” and that only makes Dean slow down, crush in and lean forward, grinning and setting his teeth to Sam’s shoulder, biting hard enough that the rush of blood when he lets go sends red to the skin’s surface, little blatant indents and dragging another noise out of Sam that only says “harder”, like Dean’s being too careful. He’s not. He’s being thorough. And possessive. Those two things go together.

Dean laughs and slaps a palm to the outside of Sam’s thigh, hard enough to throb. The noise is abrupt and so much alive that it’s strangely joyous. Sam hisses and tightens up and then he laughs too, a harsh, pleased sound, because that makes Dean groan and press in closer and Sam loves that, he loves how good Dean is like that. Pushing hard and letting Sam push back.

Sometimes in the middle of a fuck the noises they make together sound like fighting, like sparring, like they’re going at each other. And it works the other way around too, which can be a little disturbing. Adrenaline and blood and fighting and this thing between them, it gets all scrambled, leaving Sam hard and breathless when he shouldn’t be. It’s the same for Dean. Sam knows that, has used that. Has gone down on Dean in the car while the fire of the hunt is still burning, tasting him hard and heavy and with that added rush that comes from fighting for survival, for each other’s lives.

It has its place here too, in the rhythm of Dean’s hips and the way he leans down and takes complete control over Sam’s ability to move by laying out over him, weighing him down so he can’t even shift. Dean has him locked, legs high and spread, arms secured, and he’s rolling his hips like he really is fucking a girl and the blatant challenge in his eyes is nothing but wicked. Sam can hardly breathe and still it feels so damned good that he’s making small wrecked noises, working one hand loose to lay across Dean’s neck to coax him close enough to kiss.

It’s too hot, too close and reminds Sam of being grappled down, held, bested. He got good at wrestling when they were younger, losing to Dean when they fought, but getting his own back once they were on the ground, arms and legs long enough to eel out from under Dean and then lock him down in retaliation. Dean is still bigger than life in a lot of ways, though, and this is just always going to be one of them.

Dean is steady, hips rocking forward and rolling back while he nips at Sam’s mouth, small bites, just enough to make Sam’s lips feel blood rich. It’s an ache he will carry, just like he will carry all this in his muscles when he walks around tomorrow.

-Come on, come on, Sam says into Dean’s mouth and Dean does that thing with his hips again, a sweet rock’n’roll move that makes Sam moan.

There’s the unnerving knowledge that Dean could do this all night, just this, biting at Sam’s mouth and making them both sweat for it while holding off on anything that could get them anywhere. He’s a complete and total bastard that way.

It’s not all about aggression, the fact that Dean’s a beast. He’s carnal in a way that rivals something feral and untamed, but the other side of that is how good his control is. He can keep this up for a really long time and they both know it. Sam can fray his control, but he can’t really make Dean all the way lose it. Dean stays laid out all over him, letting his hips roll like he’s got nowhere to go and nothing to do, little smirking smiles flickering into life with Sam’s small noises of pleasure and frustration and there’s more heat between them, more sweat-slick skin touching than Sam can deal with. Dean is all muscle and bone armed with intent, sharp angles and soft lips, the best of contradictions and occupying all of Sam’s attention, all of his focus.

Then Dean raises himself up, folds Sam open and takes his legs in a solid grip, cool air rushing over Sam’s overheated skin in broad full-body caress before Dean bares his teeth in something that isn’t quite a smile and _moves_.

Dean’s body has always been his best weapon. Sam remembers vividly what it felt like getting reacquainted with that fact after a couple of years of absence, Dean pushing him away when he attacked, driving him back, not taking the hits, moving in that counter time that meant Sam couldn’t get in close. When Sam did score a hit Dean let him have it, fast punch that Sam met with a kick before Dean just put him on the floor like no goddamned time had passed at all. Middle-of-the-night revelations in Jess’ apartment in Palo Alto, and Sam didn’t even remember who she was for a second there when he had Dean’s hands on him.

The muscles in Sam’s legs go tight, tense, he’s striving, meeting Dean’s steady pushes and he’s slick with sweat, struggling.

- _Dean_ , Sam says, voice sanded down to nothing, tone unintentionally reverent.

Dean moves firm and unhurried, hands clenching and releasing in rhythm with his hips.

-You want something? Dean asks.   
-You know, Sam tells him.

Dean’s answering expression says he does know. Dean’s hands say “hold on”.

It’s brutal after that, Dean on him like a force of nature and just as inexorable, fingers on Sam’s hips, mouth at his neck, cock in his ass. It hurts and it’s good and it’s the most base way they connect, the one place they don’t lie to each other, or omit or subtract or embellish. Dean knows what it means when Sam moves into him, puts his hands palms down and grabs fistfuls of the sheets and writhes, when he angles his head to get another biting kiss, when he lets go, lets himself be pinioned.

Sam’s damaged. He knows it. He knows the myriads of ways in which he is the freak he’s been named, there’s no doubt about any of that. He’s been wanting this since he figured out what his dick is for and he’s staggeringly aware of what that makes of him, of what their father would say, of what everyone else would think. He’s sure that if it ever came to light how long they’ve been going at it he’d be painted the victim, somehow.

He just doesn’t care. Not when Dean is giving it to him so good the world slides away around them and leaves them moving together, a perfect engine of heat and muscle and want. Dean’s hands on him aren’t harsh, no matter that he’s fucking into Sam hard enough to drive the breath right out of Sam’s lungs in needy noises, sharp grunts and slowly disintegrating repetitions of his brother’s name. Dean owns him in moments like these and he gives everything, all of his intent and purpose focused on getting Sam to the point where he’s wrecked down to begging and prayers.

Dean’s eyes are glazed with pleasure, but he’s still working Sam over like he has no other purpose in life and that’s what Dean is right here, right now. Sam’s rough beast. Sam’s best kept secret. Sam’s favorite …everything. He could break Sam now, splinter him like a Dutch tear. Sam has to trust that Dean won’t do that, that he won’t wreck Sam apart more than he can handle, that he won’t do that without putting him back together.

This isn’t about gratification, it isn’t about the flesh. Sam could get that anywhere. This is about Dean, at his most real and solid and undisguised.

It’s a slow chant and wanting beg. It’s the things Dean can do with his hands and his mouth and the hard driving piston of his hips. Sam’s almost there, he’s just shy one more solid twist, one more stinging bite, one more grappled hold. One of Dean’s hands on Sam’s cock now, molding him into the perfect shape, the brittle-sharp angle that has them slamming together in that unforgiving way that leaves Sam blind, deaf and dumb, storm wrecked and burned down. He’s grabbing on to Dean, hands trying to do something, push or pull, Sam’s not even sure which. He’s sweating and cursing and begging and it hurts and it’s good, just like the first time, always like the first time, just like every time ever since.

Dean fucks him into pleasure and beyond it, into something that’s frightening in its own right, it’s so much bigger than the sum of the parts. And then Sam’s gone, white noise, snow and static and no doubt about why this is called the little death, so much like falling off a cliff and fearing the landing. Dean’s right there with him, all the way down.

They come down together in twisted sheets with Sam purring like a seven hundred pound tiger and Dean laughing rough-soft gavel and fire at him while he runs his hands all over. Sam rolls them and blankets his brother leaving his back for Dean to scratch at, trace sigils into. Sam makes sure they’re glued together with spit and come and blood. He’s going to ache tomorrow. He’s going to feel this. He’s going to be able to look over at Dean and see what it does to his big brother every time he winces and has to move carefully. There are bite marks and bruises.

Dean stretches out, a long luxurious unfurling that carries Sam with it, carnal and base and so very good.

-You know you are the sweetest piece of ass I’ve ever had, Dean tells him in a rumbled tone that Sam can feel as much as he can hear it and Sam wants to think it’s cheesy, but the problem is he can hear the honesty and the contentment in the words.

Sam raises his head, because, Jesus, Dean can be such a bastard, and just looks at his brother for a moment. Tousled and rumpled and relaxed, the expression in his eyes deeply pleased and still slightly wicked.

-Of course I am, Sam says after a while. “Sweet and tight. Could bounce a nickel off that thing.”

Sam leans in until their breaths mingle, Dean’s mouth already open for him and curls their tongues together slow, decadent and determined. When Sam draws back he knows Dean wants something. Dean just raises an eyebrow at him. Dean’s ego isn’t relevant, that’s not what this is about. Dean wouldn’t look to be validated like that. Dean’s a bastard, sure, but not that kind.

-Tell me, Dean says like he means it.   
-You already know, Sam answers and this is going to piss him off if he thinks about it.

He starts a motion to try and get up, attempts gathering himself somehow, muscles all jell-o and going against what he really wants, which is just to stay, let Dean get to the last rune of protection scribed into his lower back with a jagged fingernail. Dean has a grip on his upper arm before he gets anywhere and pulls him back, in close.

-Don’t be a bitch, Sammy.   
-Then don’t be a dick.

Dean’s hand on the back of his neck is enough to make Sam pay attention, grip solid, but not unkind. His smile this time is a twisted thing, a little too bitter and wrong-tilted.

-Shouldn’t matter, Sam tells him and Dean’s giving him a lot of eye contact, deep and ruthless.   
-Too many goddamned flirty college boys, Sammy. Tell me.

Sam gets it, he does. He just doesn’t like it much. Sam shakes his head and he keeps shaking it despite Dean’s hold on him. Dean doesn’t even blink, reaching for him, kissing Sam like a slow burn for a long moment and then backing off just to go back to that lizard stare.

-You think I give it up for anyone but you, you’re a fucking idiot, Sam tells him.

He hates what the admission does. Dean’s fingers relaxing, stroking slow at the base of his neck in little seemingly aimless circles that make up a bigger design if you pay careful attention.

-Atta boy, Dean drawls out.

Dean weaves them together, leg hooking over Sam’s calf, arm around his back, finger’s at his neck. Sam folds, head on Dean’s chest, and they’re a tacky mess, glued together by more than blood and spit and come, sure, but these things matter, it all matters. Dean isn’t insincerely randomly possessive, just like Sam doesn’t get arbitrarily jealous. Their world is dangerous, they can’t afford to let just anyone in.

Sam falls asleep like that, to the rhythm of Dean’s breathing, the sea-wave of his lungs expanding and deflating slowly rocking him.

He wakes up to the noise of the shower running. When Sam opens his eyes there’s a cup of coffee gently steaming on the bedside table. It takes a couple of long stretches to catalogue the aches and pains, find the burning muscles, the overstretched tendons and then Sam sits up, drinks his coffee, pulls on Dean’s old sweatpants and starts packing up. There’s no hunt here, nothing more for them to do and Sam needs to be on the move. He wants this town in the rearview.

When the bathroom door opens behind him Sam turns around and the absent words on his tongue just shrivel up and blow away.

Dean’s standing in front of him in the early morning light. He’s still damp from his shower, a little flushed. It simulates a blush pretty well and Sam thinks that’s kind of funny in contrast with the way Dean’s eyes rove over him in sharp assessment. He looks at Sam for a long moment, gaze calm, clear and somehow still wild underneath that. Time drags out to a slow crawl, air getting heavy with it. He puts a hand on the back of Sam’s neck, palm broad and warm and comforting. Dean squeezes once and there is something in his eyes that is just calmly aware of everything they’ve ever done, everything they have ever been, everything they are to each other.

-You want to get on the road? Dean asks, but it’s not really a question.

Sam nods, the heavy weight of Dean’s hand shifting a little with the motion, makes it a scratching caress.

He’ll grab a shower and then they’ll slide into the car, go find somewhere to have breakfast, leave this town behind.

There will be more assumptions, more attitudes, more preconceived notions everywhere they go. People will look at Dean and see whatever Dean wants them to see. They’ll look at Sam’s brother and think they know all about him, think that they have him all figured out. Dean will play to the gallery like he always does, misdirect and flash his brightest smile that’s so polished and shiny only Sam knows it’s fake. And Sam will watch and think about what Dean hides and what he shows and keep his own walls high and protected.

Dean, all pool-table sharp under lazy glances, or smart-mouthed and irreverent. Dean drawling out questions in that professionally bored voice that says he’s just going through the motions while not a word goes unrecorded. Dean giving a slow up-and-down to whatever waitress at whatever diner, as if he was asking for more than a refill. Dean acting flustered or adorably unaware when some college kid hits on him. Dean with his most harmless smile as a weapon against the way they come across in too worn jeans and salvation army boots. Dean being everything that people expect.

Sam’s the only one who knows different. Sam’s the only one who sees something more, something else.   
  
There are a lot of things that Sam can do without. That’s just never going to be one of them.

  
END


End file.
